


a life beyond the pale

by endlessnighttimesky



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Deathfic, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 12:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnighttimesky/pseuds/endlessnighttimesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As one of the highest ranked Clerics in the Grammaton, Frank’s first thought should be something along the lines of <i>it’s a violation</i>. Or perhaps, <i>you’re arrested</i>.</p><p>But no. The very first word that pops up in Frank Iero’s mind as he lays eyes on Gerard Way, sense offender extraordinaire and owner of multitudes of EC-10 rated objects, is <i>beautiful</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a life beyond the pale

**Author's Note:**

> So, the other day, I was browsing Netflix, and I found this movie called [Equilibrium](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Equilibrium_\(film\)). I suggest you read at least the first two paragraphs under Plot, or else this probably won't make much sense at all. Either way, I'll explain some words here, just to clear some things up.
> 
> \- Libria is the state/country that emerged after the Third World War that took place in the beginning of the 21st century.
> 
> \- EC-10 rated material is anything that is emotionally stimulating or has emotional content (thus EC), like art, music, literatue and movies. Anything that is rated EC-10 is illegal.
> 
> \- The Grammaton Clerics are a group of people within Libria's law enforcement that are trained in the martial art of gun kata, and who raid Nether in search of EC-10 rated material and hiding sense offenders.
> 
> \- Nether is the name for the region outside the city where most sense offenders are.
> 
> \- Sense offenders are people who own EC-10 rated material and/or don't take their intervals of Prozium. The punishment for being a sense offender is either Processing or death through incineration in one of the huge furnaces in the Palace of Justice.
> 
> \- The Palace of Justice is a prison where sense offenders are either put through the Process, which is simply torturing, or executed by being set on fire in one of the furnaces.
> 
> \- The Underground is a resistance movement in Nether, created by sense offenders who hide EC-10 rated material and refuse to take their intervals of Prozium.
> 
> \- Prozium is a emotion-suppressing drug that is given to every person in Libria, and an interval is the word they use instead of dose.
> 
> \- The Tetragrammaton Council is Libria's equivalent to a goverment.
> 
> \- Father is the de facto leader of Libria, and his face is on gigantic TV throughout the city as he talks about how to be a good citizen, but it's actually the vice-counsel who does most of the actual work.
> 
> \- Equilibrium is the building where the Tetragrammaton Council has it's headquarters, and it's sort of like a massive version of a city hall.
> 
> Okay, so, I think that's it. If I forgot something though, or you just need something explained, leave a comment and I'll do my best!

The first thing Frank notices about Gerard is his hair. It’s bright red, stripy and dry from bleaching and dyeing, but it stands out like nothing else in the otherwise pale and dull world that is the state of Libria.

As one of the highest ranked Clerics in the Grammaton, Frank’s first thought should be something along the lines of _it’s a violation_. Or perhaps, _you’re arrested_.

But no. The very first word that pops up in Frank Iero’s mind as he lays eyes on Gerard Way, sense offender extraordinaire and owner of multitudes of EC-10 rated objects, is _beautiful_.

It’s wrong, and Frank knows that, but he just can’t help it. He dropped his morning interval of Prozium this morning, and the Equilibrium was closed due to a terrorist attack, so he couldn’t get a replacement. He knows that it’s wrong, that skipping his dose could end him up in the Palace of Justice – or even worse, the crematorium.

But Frank isn’t one of the best Clerics for nothing. The Vice-Counsel trusts him for a reason, and that's why Frank doesn’t slip, doesn’t let his eyes linger on Gerard for longer than necessary. He maintains his cold, emotionless façade easily, because after years of not feeling a thing, suddenly doing the opposite takes a while to settle.

Gerard is standing in the corner of the room, arms wrapped around himself as if his limbs are any protection against the assault rifles the men that broke down his door are carrying. He watches the police force rummage around in his apartment with a scowl on his face, and terror appears in his eyes as Frank nods towards a nondescript patch of beige wall.

“Behind here,” Frank says and gestures for the men to break down the wall, already knowing what he’ll find behind it.

A few minutes of destruction later, Frank is stepping into a room that shouldn’t exist. It’s filled to the brim with EC-10 rated material, the patterned wallpaper barely visible behind paintings and photographs. Bookshelves line one of the walls, all of them filled with old, withering books and various memorabilia from before the war. The whole room bathes in a warm glow, courtesy of the several lamps placed, seemingly, wherever they can fit.

There’s an old armchair in a corner, a book open halfway through slung over the armrest and several more lying in a haphazard pile on a low table to the side, next to an old stereo.

Frank’s fingers itch to take one of the CDs he finds in a stack on the floor and pop it in, ears longing to hear the music he’s gone without for so long. Even after years of wearing gloves and sitting at a desk, he can still feel the callouses on his fingers, and he doesn’t think his muscle memory will ever forget how to form chords. He’s certain that if he picked up that guitar he sees in the corner, he’ll know how to play at least Smoke On The Water. Maybe the bass line to Seven Nation Army, if he thinks hard enough.

“Take him to the Palace of Justice for interrogation,” Frank says as he walks back into Gerard’s living room, flapping a hand at a man in a bulletproof vest and clearing all memories of emotion from his mind. If he’s going to let his façade crumble, he isn’t going to do it while surrounded by men with assault rifles and riot gear. It’s not that he couldn’t take them down, but he doesn’t have time for fighting right now, and he’d prefer if this all went as painlessly as possible, preferably without spilling any blood.

He’s done that enough for a lifetime.

Gerard doesn’t put up any resistance when he’s led outside to one of the cars, unlike most sense offenders. He doesn’t throw a fit, doesn’t fall to his knees and cry. He goes quietly, lips pressed into a tight line as he’s pulled out onto the street and pushed into the backseat of a sleek, black car. Frank’s car.

“Why are you putting him in my car?” Frank asks the man who brought Gerard outside.

“We need to go back to Equilibrium and help out with the attack,” the man answers, voice tinny through his helmet. “And I thought you we’re going to the Palace to interrogate him straight away, so there’s no reason you can’t take him.”

“What if he tries something?” Frank asks.

“He’s been calm so far,” the man says, and he starts walking away, obviously not up for a fight with one of the best Clerics in Libria. “And if he does try something, I’m sure you’ll be able to take care of it, Iero.”

Frank wants to smile at that, and for a split second he almost does, but he quickly gets a hold of himself. He nods instead, because the comment wasn’t supposed to be a compliment; you don’t say nice things to people just for the sake of it anymore. Appreciation is shown through hard work, and towards the state and Father only.

One honest smile and you’re only a breath away from being an ash pile at the bottom of a furnace. One miserable tear and you might as well move to Nether and join the Underground. One agonized scream and you’re just another person who’s lost his life for disobeying Father.

One emotion and you’re dead.

§ § §

The room they’re in now couldn't possibly be more different the hidden room in Gerard’s apartment. The ceiling is high, the light bright and blinding, and everything is grey and geometrical, all sharp edges and straight lines.

Except Gerard.

He’s an illegal splash of color, curves and shapes and abstraction, a masterpiece with a beating heart. His dirty boots are propped up on the edge of the table and he’s winding a greasy strand of hair around a paint-stained finger, smirking as he waits for Frank to get his file open on the table.

“I see they haven’t noticed yet,” he says, dropping his feet to the floor and leaning forward until his face is only a few inches away from Frank’s.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Frank lies and leans back, putting distance between him and Gerard.

“Right,” Gerard says and raises an incredulous eyebrow. “And I’m not a sense offender.”

“So that’s a confession, then?” Frank wants to grin as he says that, but he restrains himself.

“Like you ever needed one,” Gerard spits, running a hand through his hair, frustrated. “You’ll throw me in the oven no matter what I say.” He doesn’t want to die. He’s not afraid – he had enough close calls before and during the war not to fear the inevitable. But he wasted so many years of his life wanting to end it, that he now values every minute, every second of his life. Even with the new laws, even with Father and the Tetragrammaton Council watching him wherever he goes, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“If the judge finds you guilty of sense offense, yes,” Frank says, finding it harder and harder to keep up the emotionless act when all he really wants is to run away to Nether and hide there with the rest of the Underground. He wants to escape the Grammaton, wants to turn his back on Equilibrium and never look back. And all of this, he wants to do with Gerard.

“There is a room in my apartment filled with EC-10 rated material,” Gerard says. “I don’t need a judge to tell me I’m going to die.”

“He might decide to put you through the Process,” Frank says.

Gerard snorts. His voice is dripping poison when he says, “Then I’d rather die.”

Frank almost flashes Gerard a grin and says, “I’m sure that can be arranged,” but he catches himself at the last minute. Instead all he says is, “Noted,” in complete deadpan as he scribbles something unintelligible in Gerard’s file.

Gerard rolls his eyes and asks, “Isn’t it annoying? Keeping a straight face all the time?”

“I don’t know how doing what I’ve always done would be annoying,” Frank says, pointedly avoiding looking at Gerard. “Today is no different from any other day.”

“I’m taking that as an insult,” Gerard says and crosses his arms over his chest.

“You do so, Mr. Way,” Frank says, with only the barest hint of amusement.

“I knew it,” Gerard says. Frank thinks he could probably be a pretty good Cleric himself, with the way he seems to pick up on emotion. He doubts that’s a career Gerard would ever want to pursue, though.

“Sure you did,” Frank says, and walks out of the room.

§ § §

Frank has gone three days without Prozium the next time he sees Gerard. He hides the little vials behind the mirror in his bathroom, in the wall amongst the pipes. No one has noticed how he skips his intervals, but he figures it’s just a matter of time before he fails to suppress a smile or stifle a laugh.

With Gerard though, he’s safe. The room he’s kept in lacks security cameras, and ever since the attack to Equilibrium, the Palace of Justice has been short-staffed, so there’s no one around to care if Frank doesn’t bother to take Gerard to an interrogation room when he needs to question him. Unlike the cells, the interrogation rooms have cameras and one-way mirrors, which doesn’t lend them easily to privacy. The cells, on the other hand, are simple square rooms, all concrete and steel, with heavy doors to keep criminals as far away from the outside world as possible. If Frank locks that door, no one can interrupt them. They’re alone.

Of course, that’s not something Frank should think about. He shouldn’t be alone with a sense offender, and he definitely shouldn’t _want_ to be. But somehow, he does. He wants to keep Gerard from the outside world, keep him for himself and never let him near the furnaces. He doesn’t want him to die.

“Wonderful,” Gerard snaps as Frank opens the door and steps inside his cell. He’s on his back on the bed, staring at the ceiling and tapping out a rhythm on his chest with his fingertips. Some distant part of Frank’s brain thinks it recognizes the melody, but Frank doesn’t acknowledge it.

“I’m here to ask you some more questions,” Frank says as he turns around to lock the door behind him.

“Never could’ve guessed,” Gerard says and pushes himself up, scooting backwards until he’s sitting with his back against the headboard. He looks at Frank with a sarcastic smile and gestures towards the empty space on the bed. “Be my guest.”

Why Frank cracks at just that moment, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that for the first time since before the war, for the first time in _years_ , he smiles.

It doesn’t make sense, because Gerard hasn’t been anything but a dick to him ever since they met, and he shouldn’t make Frank smile. But if Frank has learned something during the past three days, it’s that when it comes to emotions, things rarely make sense.

“Will you stop being an asshole now?” he says and sits down in the edge of the bed, still grinning at Gerard, who’s just staring at him, mouth open. “You’re the one who was so sure I wasn’t taking my intervals,” Frank says, leaning forward to close Gerard’s mouth with a fingertip under his chin. “So stop being surprised.”

“I’m just surprised that you remember,” Gerard says. “I’ve met people in Nether who doesn’t, even after going without Prozium for weeks. They don’t have anything to remind them of how it is to feel, no memories to connect to. You’re not like that, though, are you?”

Frank gives a little grin and pulls off his gloves, holding his hands forward for Gerard to see. They’re covered in ink, letters and pictures that all had a meaning before the war. Now they’re just illegal symbols, shapes that would get him throw in a furnace faster than he could say ‘EC-10’.

Gerard makes an impressed noise, soft and low in his throat, as he grabs one of Frank’s hands for closer inspection. He runs the pads of his fingers over the colors ingrained in Frank’s skin, tracing lines and brushing over shades.

“Halloween,” he reads as he brings Frank’s hands together, eyes skimming over the letters on his knuckles. There’s a line between his eyebrows; he doesn’t quite remember what the word means.

“It’s my birthday,” Frank explains. In Libria, that doesn’t mean anything – in a country without emotions, days of celebration are pointless. But back in the days, when they all still lived in the United States of America, it meant pumpkins and ghosts and plastic skeletons, kids running around the streets in costumes, buckets in their hands ready to be filled with candy. Now it’s just like any other day of the year, phrases like ‘trick or treat’ long forgotten.

“October… 31st,” Gerard says after a moment of consideration. “Am I right?”

Frank nods, his smile seemingly permanent, because he can’t make it go away. “Yeah.”

“These though,” Gerard says, running his finger over the smaller letters on Frank’s second knuckles. “I don’t…”

Frank gingerly pulls his hands away and intertwines his fingers, angling his hands so Gerard can see the word.

“Bookworm,” Gerard reads, a sad smile on his face. “That’s just fucking tragic.”

“I know, right?” Frank says, letting his hands drop to his lap. “I used to read so much, any time, any place. Everything from classics to comic books.”

Gerard lights up, and he tells Frank that he used to work for Cartoon Network. When Frank looks at him, confusion in his eyes, he says, “You know, cartoons? Animated shows on TV? I used to draw them.”

Frank is quiet for another moment, racking his brain for memories. It’s been a long time since anything but Father’s face has been shown on television, but then he remembers.

“There was this show when I was little,” he says. “With… turtles, I think?”

Gerard grins, nodding in recognition. “Yeah, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”

“Yeah!” Frank says. “There was this guy – well, turtle – that had the same name as my partner. Mikey. For Michelangelo, I think?”

Gerard’s eyebrows go up, high on his forehead. “Wait, you know a guy called Mikey?”

“Knew,” Frank corrects, a little sadly, because now that he feels again, Mikey’s death affects him in a way he hasn’t experienced since Jamia. “He, um, was sentenced to death for sense offense a few weeks ago.”

“He’s dead?” Gerard’s voice is high and filled with disbelief, and suddenly he’s on the verge of tears.

“Yeah,” Frank says, voice cautious, because although he doesn’t know exactly why Mikey’s death is so upsetting to Gerard, his newfound emotions tell him to be careful. He doesn’t want to cause Gerard more distress than absolutely necessary.

“Mikey Way?” Gerard asks, just to be sure. Lots of people are named Mikey, right? Frank’s partner might just be a guy with the same name, and not Gerard’s brother.

Frank only nods.

“Oh God,” Gerard scrabbles on the bed, pushing himself further into the corner, trying to get away from himself. His hands are up by his face, muffling the choked breaths and covering his eyes as tears run down his cheeks.

It takes a moment for Frank to realize why Gerard’s is reacting so strongly to Mikey’s death, and so when he finally makes the connection, he can’t help but take Gerard in his arms, because that feels like the thing to do. He’s never touched anyone this way since Jamia, but it feels right, feels _good_ , either way.

Gerard stills in Frank’s embrace at first, as unfamiliar to the intimacy as Frank, but then the huge sobs return, tearing through his body as he gasps for air.

They sit there for God knows how long, Frank just holding Gerard as his sobs turn to sniffles, sniffling later giving way for just heavy breaths and the occasional tear.

“I knew he was working as a Cleric,” Gerard explains after a while, when they’re both sitting with their backs against the wall, knees drawn up to their chins and arms wound around their legs.

Frank hasn’t asked anything, but he can see how Gerard wants to talk about it, because after the Clerics took away Jamia, pretty much the only thing he wanted was to tell someone how he felt, how much he hurt, because though Prozium does a nice job at keeping the population subdued, it doesn’t quite seem to suppress the immense pain that comes with losing a loved one. Frank was still taking his intervals back then though, but Gerard has been without them for months, maybe years, and so Frank can’t even begin to imagine what he’s feeling right now. When he lost Jamia, his emotions were suppressed, but he still wanted to fall to his knees and cry out. He supposed what Gerard wants is somewhere closer to lying down on the ground and die.

“He knows about the room,” Gerard continues, wiping a few tears from the hollow beneath his eye. “Well, knew. He didn’t say anything, though. He knew what it means – _meant_ – to me. I used to be an artist, before the war. He knew how much art meant to me, knew that if I would be separated from it I’d probably die. And then, when I fucked up, he was the one who kept me sane, kept me alive.”

“Fucked up?” Frank’s voice is barely a whisper, but Gerard is close enough to hear him clearly.

“It was just alcohol and pills in the beginning,” Gerard says. “A lot of whiskey, a lot of Xanax. But if you spend most of your free time in a bar, drinking yourself stupid, it’s just a matter of time before you hit the heavier things. I did a lot of coke. Some meth, when people offered. Mikey pulled me out of it, made me go to… AA, I think was the name. Yeah, Alcoholics Anonymous. They had like, these twelve steps, and it was all about accepting God as your savior and whatnot. I didn’t do those, but I went to the meetings anyway.”

“It’s comforting to know you’re not the only one out there with a problem,” Frank says before he can stop himself. He doesn’t think it through, but when Gerard lifts his head and looks at him, he’s smiling.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is. Like, it’s nice to know you’re not alone.”

“That you’re not the only one hurting.”

Gerard nods, and then he’s quiet for a while before he asks, “Are you?”

“What?” Frank asks, not quite following Gerard’s train of thought.

“Hurting,” Gerard says. “Are you?”

That’s when Frank comes to the realization that yes, he’s hurting. He’s been hurting for years, but it’s not until now that he’s aware of it, that he’s allowed to express it.

“I think so,” Frank says, still a little uncertain. He pushes the right sleeve of his jacket up, brushing his fingers over the heart on the back of his hand, tracing the letters in the banner that runs across it.

“Who was she?” Gerard asks, reading the name in ink on Frank’s skin. “Jamia?”

“My wife,” Frank says. “We’d been together since high school. She stuck with me through the war, even when I became a Cleric. She said it was because she loved me. I didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, not with the Prozium. She refused to take it, though, and I never turned her in, so I guess, on some level, the Prozium didn’t really do what it was supposed to.”

“Or you just loved her,” Gerard says softly, slumping lower against the wall and resting his head on Frank’s shoulder.

Frank mumbles something assertive, too busy thinking to pay attention to forming words. It’s not like he doesn’t see the correlations between what happened with Jamia and what’s currently happening with Gerard. He didn’t report Jamia’s sense offense because he loved her. He isn’t investigating Gerard’s sense offense because… It can’t be because he loves him. He’s known the man for three days, for God’s sake. Even Frank remembers that love takes time. That phrase from before… yeah, ‘love at first sight’. It doesn’t exist, not now, but not before either. It’s just something romance authors came up with, not something that happens in real life.

Frank can’t help but doubt it, though, because there’s no denying that the main reason he hasn’t resumed taking his intervals is Gerard. Finally realizing how horrible the world is isn’t really something Frank finds entertaining, but with Gerard in his life, it feels worth it, somehow.

“I’m not doing my job,” he says, turning his head so he can glance at Gerard where he’s still propped against his arm. “I’m not taking my intervals. Because of you.”

Gerard doesn’t ask why, doesn’t give Frank a surprised look and asks, “Because of me?” Instead, all he does is press closer, tilting his head to the side until his lips touch Frank’s neck.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks against the high collar of Frank’s jacket.

Frank doesn’t think he reacts like he should to that question, since he neither startles nor says no. He just brings a hand up to cup Gerard’s face and leans in, letting their lips meet.

It’s strange, at first, because kissing has been outlawed for years, so when Jamia was still alive they only did it on rare occasions to avoid being turned in. It feels good though, and Frank gets the hang of it pretty quickly, opening his mouth when Gerard licks the seam of his lips, tilting his head to avoid their noses bumping.

But that’s only the physical part, which is nothing compared to all the feelings that are flooding Frank’s mind right now. It’s like an emotional overload, filling Frank’s brain with things he never thought he’d experience after the war, after Jamia.

He has no idea how to label every thought that pops into his head, one more with every breath he can feel Gerard exhale against his lips. He doesn’t know what it all means, and he doesn’t really care either, can’t make himself overthink things as long as Gerard’s skin is under his fingertips, their lips moving together.

“Take it off,” Gerard mumbles as he settles in Frank’s lap, hands scrabbling on the slick fabric of Frank’s jacket. Frank complies easily and brings his hands up to undo the buttons on either side, letting Gerard push the whole thing off his shoulders once the front is open. Gerard immediately goes for the buttons on the shirt Frank is wearing beneath, almost ripping some of them in his quest to get Frank out of his clothes.

He goes still once the shirt lies discarded on the bed and stares transfixed at Frank’s chest and arms, watching the tattoos move slightly with every labored breath Frank takes. Even with the hidden room in his apartment, tattoos are something Gerard hasn’t seen in years. There aren’t many pictures of them in the old books and magazines he saved, and even then it’s nothing compared to seeing the real deal, inked onto someone’s skin.

Running his fingers over the colors on Frank’s left arm, Gerard leans in, capturing his lips in yet another kiss. The intimacy is just as new to Gerard as it is to Frank; he hasn’t been with anyone since Bert, and that was before the war, when he was still fucked up. When he got sober, he buried himself in work, drawing whenever Mikey didn’t manage to drag him out to a club for a gig.

Then the war started and he was too busy going underground, salvaging books and paintings and records, to even think about relationships. Sure, there were the casual hook-ups, but that was more out of the sheer need of being close than anything else, and when the sun rose the next morning you didn’t think twice about it.

Now though, Gerard’s has thought twice, has thought three, four, five times, about Frank, about what they have, what they are. The only thing he finds out is that it doesn’t matter what they label themselves as, it’s illegal however you put it. Emotions are prohibited and punishable by death, which means that whatever it is they do, it has to be kept a secret.

That’s if it even can go on; Gerard isn’t sure how long Frank will be able to keep up the façade. He trusts Frank, it’s not that, but he knows how hard pretending not to feel is. It’s not like the Grammaton just discovered his hidden room by accident. He’s unintentionally been giving them clues for months, and so it was just a matter of time before they came and broke down his door.

“You’re thinking too much,” Frank mumbles against Gerard’s lips as they part for air.

“I’m an artist, it’s what I do,” Gerard says, fingertips tracing the gray lines of Frank’s chestpiece.

“Then tell me what you’re thinking,” Frank says, pulling back a little and looking up at Gerard.

“I’m not thinking as much as I’m wondering what the fuck we’re doing,” Gerard says, not really meeting Frank’s gaze and instead keeping his eyes on his hand as it strokes over Frank’s shoulder and down his arm.

“Do you regret it?” Frank asks.

“In a way,” Gerard answers, dragging a bitten-down nail along Frank’s bicep, making him shiver. “I regret it because it will just make saying goodbye harder. I didn’t have anyone to say it to before – well, I thought I had Mikey, but I don’t. Saying goodbye to him would be hard enough; now I’ve got you instead. I don’t know which one is better.”

“But at the same time you don’t,” Frank guesses.

Gerard nods. “I don’t regret it, and I won’t _let_ myself regret it, because this – you – are everything I’ve ever wanted, all these years. I know it’s weird, maybe even wrong, but it’s the truth, and I’m sick of lying.”

Frank doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just pulls Gerard close again and kisses him, soft and slow and with every thought he doesn’t know how to express. Gerard seems to understand, because he presses so close that Frank can’t help but think that it’s just a matter of time before they blend together into a single being.

It doesn’t take long for the kiss to turn heated, accompanied by roaming hands and cut-off moans. They know the walls are soundproofed, but it’s still hard to let go, to ignore your inhibitions completely and let instincts take over. Without emotions, instinctive behavior becomes obsolete, impossible.

Gerard, being the one who’s gone without Prozium the longest, is the first one who lets himself react without thinking, act with only his wants and needs as guidance. He does it by pushing Frank down on the bed and crawling over him until they’re flush together, chests meeting and hips grinding together.

Frank would be surprised, but can’t makes himself bother and pretend to be, because this is really all he’s wanted ever since he saw Gerard the first time. To be close to him, to have him in a way no one has in years.

“I want you,” Frank admits, voice rough and low as if he’s unsure how to form words.

Gerard pulls back until he can look at Frank, see if he’s telling the truth. He finds nothing but honesty in Frank’s eyes, just some hazy lust, and he figures that’s a given.

He doesn’t answer Frank, doesn’t say anything, just leans in for another kiss, letting that be his only reply and trusting Frank to know what it means.

Frank knows, he doesn’t have any idea how but he _knows_ , and that’s really all he needs; and affirmative from Gerard that this is okay.

He smiles against Gerard’s lips, telling him without words that he understands. Gerard does the same.

“Get this thing off,” Frank says then, clawing frantically at Gerard’s t-shirt, willing to tear it off should it come to that. He doesn’t care what he does anymore, can’t make himself think about the consequences of his actions. All he is aware of is right here, right now, and he will be until he leaves this room. Not before then.

Gerard grins at Frank’s impatience and sits up, grabbing his t-shirt by the hem and pulling it over his head, messing up is hair in the process. Not that it makes much difference, not with how Frank has been weaving his hands into it for the past thirty minutes.

“Fuck,” Frank says, eyes skimming over Gerard’s torso. He runs his hands, dark with ink and calloused even after years of wearing gloves, over his pale, soft skin, digging his fingers into the flesh spilling over the waistband of Gerard’s jeans. “So fucking beautiful.”

Gerard squirms under Frank’s gaze, uncomfortable with being scrutinized like this, but he doesn’t move or make an attempt to turn Frank’s attention elsewhere. He lets himself be looked at, and eventually eases into it, relaxing as Frank’s hands and tongue memorize every scar and birthmark flecking Gerard’s skin.

When all their clothes are lying discarded in a corner, they’re both thrumming with need, skin soaked in sweat and hair plastered to their foreheads. Frank strokes a few strands away from Gerard’s face, so he can see his eyes as they get acquainted with each other in the most intimate way.

Frank doesn’t let Gerard up once through it all, keeping him as close as possible, pressing him to his chest as their hips move together. He’s got his arms wrapped around Gerard’s back and his nails are drawing red lines there, fingertips dipping into Gerard’s skin when it all gets too much.

Their lips only part to breathe, but even oxygen seems irrelevant in a moment like this, and so they kiss and kiss and kiss until they’re both breathless and panting, lying beside each other in a mess of sheets and sweat.

“I have to go soon,” Frank says reluctantly, breaking the silence and unwinding his arms from around Gerard’s body.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Gerard says, knowing he sounds weak and pathetic but not caring about it the least. He clings to Frank, burying his face in the nape of his neck, pressing a kiss there, a silent plea of _please don’t go_.

“I love you,” Frank says, but his voice is so tiny that the words are lost completely under Gerard’s frantic ramblings of, “No, please, don’t. Don’t say it, don’t make it harder…”

“I have to,” Frank says, hushing him as if Gerard is a frightened child, which isn’t that far from the truth as one might think. “I want you to know. You need to know.”

“I already know,” Gerard says, voice muffled against Frank’s skin. “You don’t have to say it, I already – ”

“But I do,” Frank insists, “I do, and I need to say it, to make it real, or else I will forget. I don’t want to forget.”

Gerard takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he looks up at Frank, giving him his permission to say it, the words that surely will ruin them both.

“I love you,” Frank says carefully, as if the wrong tone would scare Gerard away. “Don’t forget that. Please don’t.”

“I won’t,” Gerard promises, and somehow manages to pull Frank closer than he already is. It’s another of those moments where it feels like they’re going to melt into each other, and Frank revels in it, holding Gerard tight enough to bruise.

“I love you too,” Gerard whispers after a long time of silence, feeling Frank smile against his jaw.

“If I could save you,” Frank says, almost breathless from the realization that this will be over soon, “if I could prove you innocent… I would do it.”

“I know,” Gerard says, pulling Frank in for a last, desperate kiss. “I know.”

§ § §

Frank arrives at work the next day only to find Gerard’s file on his desk, letters stamped across the outside. ‘Executed’ it says in red. He doesn’t open it, doesn’t read the notes the executioner will inevitably have written, about how Gerard acted, what he said, if he cried or not. Acknowledging the fact that whether he cried or not, Gerard went painfully, is not something Frank can do. The truth isn’t something he can handle, the knowledge that all that’s left of Gerard’s perfect, pallid skin is a pile of black ash not something he needs.

He realizes, when gets home that night, to the solitude of his own apartment and a cold bed, that he lied. He wants to forget. There’s only one thing he wants more than that, and bringing Gerard back is impossible, so he’s left with wanting, _needing_ , to forget it all, because if he doesn’t he’ll be ruined.

So, before he goes to bed, he lifts the mirror off his bathroom wall and grabs the vials, refilling his medicine gun. He presses the short barrel to the side of his neck, letting the needle puncture his skin and the Prozium seep into his bloodstream.

He still cries himself to sleep.


End file.
